"She'd better, for what you're paying." Stellan shakes his head, but he's grinning. "When are you doing it?"
"Soon." I don't have a specific plan, just the certainty that's been building in my chest for weeks now. "When it feels right."
"Nothing about this feels right." But there's no criticism in it, just observation. "You've just made your way and dragged everyone else along."
"I'll tie everyone to a damn chair if that's what it takes to get her at the altar with me."
"Jesus." He actually laughs, real warmth in it. "You sound insane."
"Probably am."
Viktor packages the ring in a small velvet box, black exterior, cream silk interior. It's surprisingly light for something that feels this heavy, this significant. I tuck it into my jacket pocket, feeling the weight settle against my ribs like a second heartbeat.
"Congratulations." Viktor extends his hand, genuinely pleased. "She's lucky."
"I'm lucky." The correction matters. Zola could have anyone—should have someone better than me, someone without blood under his nails and violence threaded through his DNA. But she chose me, keeps choosing me, and I'm selfish enough to take what she offers and hold on with both hands.
We head back through the club, Stellan unusually quiet beside me. The morning's gotten brighter, sun climbing higher, painting Philadelphia in shades of gold and amber. My phone says it's just past seven—Zola's definitely gone by now, probably heading to her first class so she can take notes in that precise handwriting she has.
I'll text her in a few hours. Get her back to mine tonight. Cook something elaborate that makes her roll those amber eyes and accuse me of showing off. Kiss her until she stops talking, until the only sound is our breathing and the city humming beyond the windows.
The ring presses against my ribs, promise and possibility and terrifying commitment all wrapped in platinum and alexandrite.
"Hey." Stellan bumps my shoulder as we walk. "I'm happy for you. Really."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He squints against the sun, that cold mask fully down for once. "You deserve something good. And she's—she's really fucking good."
The words catch in my throat, so I just nod. Brothers don't need elaborate speeches, don't need declarations of feeling when the feeling's already understood.
We reach the car, morning air crisp and clean after the smoke-thick club. I'm pulling my keys out when my phone rings, sharp trill that cuts through the quiet. Unknown number, but it's coming through on my business line—the one only a handful of people have.
I lift it to my ear. "Yeah?"
"Mr. Wolfe." The voice is strained, familiar—Danny, one of my guys who runs security on the north side distribution point. "We've got a situation. There's been an accident."
3
ZOLA
The world swims back into focus in fragments—fluorescent lights bleeding white across my vision, the antiseptic bite of hospital air filling my lungs, sheets scratching against skin that feels raw and wrong. My mouth tastes like copper and something chemical, tongue thick and clumsy when I try to swallow.
Where—?
I try to sit up and pain explodes through my abdomen, sharp and immediate enough to punch the air from my lungs. A sound escapes me, something between a gasp and a whimper that I hate the moment it leaves my throat.
"Easy." The voice comes from my left, male and familiar but not the one I'm expecting. "Don't move too fast."
I turn my head—even that small motion sends ripples of discomfort through my body—and find Stellan Wolfe sitting in a chair shoved against the corner of the room. He looks wrong here, too sharp and polished for the institutional beige walls and scratched linoleum. His dress shirt's rumpled though, sleeves rolled up, dark circles under those steel-gray eyes that suggest he's been here a while.
"Stellan?" My voice comes out scratchy, unfamiliar. "What—where am I?"
"Hospital." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and there's something in his expression I've never seen before—concern, maybe, or the closest approximation someone like him can manage. "You've been out for a few hours."
Hospital. The word doesn't make sense, doesn't connect to anything solid in my memory. I was—I was going somewhere. Class. I had that early lecture on anatomy, the one where Professor Chen always starts exactly at eight-thirty whether you're in your seat or not.
I try to push myself up again, slower this time, but the pain in my abdomen intensifies, spreading through my torso in waves that make my vision swim.
